archive fever

9.14.90

It is the archetypical melting pot on the verge of meltdown. Jewish, Irish, Caribbean, Puerto Rican, Latin, black, and women's herstories mix in an easy uneasy way. This is New York City. I live in fortress 2C, next to the Irish bar, next to the Cuban bakery, next to the Korean fish market, next to the Caribbean/Latin Superette, next to the Chinese laundry, next to the Armory. Suspicion is the watchword. Everyone is a potential victim because everyone is a potential murderer. This is a conformist town. Fit in  or be shot. Look the same or always cover your back. Talk too much to neighbors and come home to an empty space. Hi and goodbye. Sun-glassed smiles and nods of the head say "make this brief." 

9.15.90

Fall weather brings the aroma of stale urine closer to home. Rose of India restaurant on E. 6th St. They sell food and culture. The selling of the latter detracts from the taste of the former.

9.20.00

"Back in New York City..." Now at Gothic University, straight out of Straight Man. These people, my putative colleagues, are beleaguered. What was an attempt at unity turns rancorous; the lead organizer, accused of exclusionary practices, which he denies, but which everyone knows is true, leaves the table, the room, the universe, ten minutes before quitting time. To wit. And henceforth. Before this happy event, another one -- one of my putative colleagues -- says something like: "I am the only ____ woman left and that tells me I HAVE NO FUTURE HERE." You can fill in that blank. 

9.21.00

Gothic University. Nightmare on Elm Street. The room seethed with barely repressed rage as good Dean T. delivered her state of the division speech. Upbeat. Up enrollments. New plans to better utilize resources -- double the exploitation. The Dean has her boots pressed on the necks of these faculty members but she also wants no rough edges or worn heels. Sorry -- step on eggs, wipe the yolk off your feet.